


Ways to Wickedness

by osmalic



Category: Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked - Gregory Maguire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-16
Updated: 2006-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:51:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osmalic/pseuds/osmalic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way to wickedness is numerous and varied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ways to Wickedness

**Author's Note:**

> _138\. "Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right paths, but the final forming of the person’s character lies in their own hands."_ \- Anne Frank

**Resentment**

Nessarose says, "Lock the latch behind you, please, and will you take off my shawl?" as if finding her sister standing at her window ledge in the middle of the night is a normal occurrence.

Nevertheless Elphaba does as she is told, stepping carefully over the settee and the carpet to leave no track marks or grass stains. The broomstick in her hands is carefully tucked to her side. Nessarose politely ignores her sister's gaze around the room and instead turns to the helper still hovering at her side. "My sister will handle it from here," she says, "but you are to return in the morning. Have someone fix a room for tonight, and tell my esteemed father of my sister's visit."

"He doesn't need to know," Elphaba puts in.

Nessarose would shrug if only she has shoulders and does not turn to her. "Tell him anyway," she informs the helper, who bows and leaves.

Finally, Elphaba steps before her, assessing her critically. Nessarose fights the urge to squirm at her gaze and stands proudly: shawl, dress and silver slippers—armless and all. She knows her sister has never desired for her position in Coven Grounds but it is a habit, this useless competition.

Then, perhaps deeming her appropriate, Elphaba puts the broomstick on the carpet before reaching out to unfasten the tangle of strings on Nessarose's chest. "You look well," she says.

Even in the darkened room lit by three candles, Nessarose can see the green tinge of her sister's skin. "I'm tired though. There were so many things to do today—"

"Killed any more Animals lately?"

"I do not need your approval," Nessarose retorts sharply. "I shall do as I please."

"Good," Elphaba says, finishing her task. "You wouldn't get my approval anyway. But you are not a child, to do as you please always."

Nessarose thinks about making a snappy rejoinder but she remembers she is Eminent Thropp now, and she must not let her own sister goad her into an argument. So she lets Elphaba twirl around her to remove the shawl, draping it on top of a nearby chair. It feels like they have done this millions of times, even after not seeing each other for years.Nessarose straightens her back. She _is_ tired, as she admitted to Elphaba, but there must be a good reason why her sister flew all the way from Lurlene knows where. It would not do to dismiss it.

"Why have you come?" she asks, sitting on her settee against the window.

Elphaba does not meet her eyes for a long time and Nessarose can see that her hands are pressed against her thighs, clutching her skirt. For one brief moment, she wonders if she should envy her sister for having hands or feel relieved she has never felt the sensation of foreign hard nails pressing against an alien idea of palms. Her sister's anxiety is puzzling. "Elphie...?"

"All this," her sister says softly, "all this you've done, what did you hope to achieve?"

The familiar scorn rushes into Nessarose's breast and she squashes it down to meet her sister's eyes. "I do not have to defend my actions to _you._ Why have you come?"

"There is so much trouble in the world, Nessa."

"My concern is only with this country," Nessarose says angrily, then more insistent: "Why have you come?"

In the darkness of the room, green skin glowing in the candle and the moonlight, her older sister seems like a foreign monster. "I needed clarity."

Nessarose has to laugh. Is this truly her sister? "Dear Elphie," she says fondly, gazing up at the green thing before her, "with your loud preaches against anything remotely spiritual, I'm finding it hard to see why you should need my help."

Her sister abruptly kneels before her and grips her shoulders. "The Wizard is not someone to trifle with," she says seriously. "All that is important to me—"

"You, you, _you!"_ Nessarose springs up, unable to contain the sick feeling coursing through her veins. "Do you believe the world revolves around you? There are so many things happening without your guidance, and all you've done is hide and hide while the rest of us return to the real world!"

Even in the darkness, Elphaba's green face turns pale, but she, too, is furious. "You have _no_ idea what has happened during the time I've been gone."

"And I do not wish to find out," Nessarose retorts. "What happened? Don't tempt me, sister. You think you can change the world, but refuse the power that was given to you! You attempt to sing your own tunes, dance with your own strings, but I tell you, I dance to no one's strings and sing to no one's tunes but my own. You have withdrawn your claim as Eminent Thropp. You have withdrawn your claim, and _I_ am the Eminent Thropp now. All lives in Munchkinland depend on me—"

"All lives including _Animals,"_ her sister interrupts scathingly.

"Lives of whom you turned away from," Nessarose shoots back. She straightens painfully, ignoring her weariness, but she refuses to slump in the face of this green monster. "You've had your chance, Elphaba. _I will not back down."_

And suddenly, her sister draws back, her face grotesquely contoured in the candlelight. For one second, Nessarose is afraid. But she stands and looks down at her sister, who cowers even as she glares up at her. _Fear of me?_ Nessarose thinks, and she, with her armless torso and her silver slippers, is glad.

Then oh, _oh,_ Elphaba begins to laugh—not the cackling that Nessarose thought she might develop, nor was it the melodious tone of the sister who sang to her and Shell during childhood. No, this Elphaba laughs with some resignation, a soft sound unlaced with hysteria and speckled with defeat.

"Nessarose," her sister says finally, "I had almost expected to hear you say that."

Nessarose does not answer but glares at her.

 _"Your_ choices, you say," Elphaba continues, quietly now. "A small request here, a small suggestion there, and you might have played into the hands of a formidable enemy."

"I can be formidable too," replies Nessarose but even to her ears it sounds like a child's sulk.

And maybe to Elphaba as well, for she glances away, saying, "No, I will never agree to your ideas and your ways. And maybe you are being nudged towards one way that is not your own."

 _I do not care if it is someone else's path,_ Nessarose cannot help think, _as long as it's not yours._ But she does not say it out loud. Instead, finally tiring of conversation, she says, "And is that all you would do? Now that there is no need for you, will you poke your green nose into all the things that are mine?"

Her sister's hands brushes against the broomstick lying on the floor next to her. The mention of _green_ is not a taboo, not when Nessarose has no arms. It is a silly, childish thing, but in that they are equal. "No," Elphaba says, meeting her eyes sadly. "I had sought to warn you...to tell you the opposite. Your decisions are your own, and I will not return for a long time. My business in the west is not...has only just begun and there is much to do..." One hand hides in her pocket but the rigid line of her shoulders tell Nessarose that her fingers are clenched. She tries not to envy them.

"No rest for witches," the Witch of the East says wearily.

"Indeed," her sister agrees softly as she shifts her skirt and steps towards the door. "No rest for witches, and no paths before us but the yellow brick road."

 _But you have the sky,_ Nessarose thinks enviously as her sister bids her leave.

* * *

 **Intolerance**

"I have nothing to say to you," the Witch says in a clipped tone, coldly striding past the figure standing nervously before her.

"Elphie!" Glinda cries, matching the pace despite wearing high-heeled shoes. _Shoes,_ she thinks spitefully, _all this because of **shoes!** _ "You must listen to—this rite is a celebration—of life and joy despite—despite such a hard time—oh, Elphie, _please!"_

"And be joyful for what reason?!" Elphaba roars, stopping so suddenly that Glinda has to skid to a stop and turn to her. "You have the audacity to criticize me while you thought it your right to give _my property_ to a murdering little girl! And now, here are the Wizard's guards gathering around Colwen Grounds—"

"Silly shoes!" Glinda shouts, stamping her foot. "They will always belong to Nessarose and not to you!"

"And yet you've given them to a child and _oh,_ Glinda, can't you see? Munchkinland will return to the Wizard's rule and the people here already hated Nessarose enough. All that she has done for their well-being will be for naught!"

The distress in the Witch's face is so clear that guilt threatens to constrict Glinda's throat. The feeling is detestable and she tries to push it away: "Elphie dearest, _surely_ you don't believe those shoes magically gave her strength? Moping around because of that loss will do nothing to bring Nessarose back."

"I tried to warn her!" the Witch cries, then quickly hushes her tone as she looks around the great hall. By Glinda's quick look, they are all alone, but her friend still seems disquieted. "As I warned you. Are we all of us pawns to a cowardly Wizard and his minions?"

Glinda stares at her friend, for the first time seeing her greatly changed—not to a Witch, but to an uncertain young woman. _Elphaba,_ she thinks despairingly, _what happened to you?_ "When you first broached this idea to me, I thought it absurd and nonsensical. I admit that I callously made a decision when I should have asked you first, yet all that I did, I did for the sake of Nessarose and for the memory of our friendship. Those shoes were not mine to give, but I grabbed an opportunity to help a little girl."

The Witch only snorts. "And what is this political move?" she sneers. "Glinda, the Good Witch of the North, giving the usurper of the Wicked Witch of the East her silver shoes and a kiss that marked her as 'beloved'. The Wizard will seize this child and kill her—and then Munchkinland will be under Oz once more. Being the idiots that many of them are, they won't even refuse. That's what would happen, and I won't even be here to protect them!"

"You spout insults and concern for the Munchkinlanders in one breath," Glinda says, amazed and furious. "How dare you condemn me of my move when you refuse to sit here and face the responsibilities of a Thropp?"

"I have my own responsibilities!" the Witch shouts, voice just a tad shrill.

"None of which you're willing to face," Glinda snaps back, feeling one of her headaches coming on. She should have known an apology right before the funeral rites would be unappreciated. "If you only stayed where were needed, none of these would have happened—"

"And it is _my_ fault then for not foreseeing these?"

 _"You're_ the wicked Witch," Glinda points out angrily. "You with your broom and your lack of apologies, with your paranoia, you would have foreseen at least the consequences of your indecisions."

"My decisions were sound," the Witch replies although her voice wavers. "And all I did was not as much as for the good of Oz but also for your own good. I put you in that carriage to protect you as much as to protect Nessarose."

Talk of self-sacrifice always puts Glinda into a fouler mood; this is no exception. "And then you disappeared," she grounds, "before sauntering back on your broomstick—as green as you please!—expecting that all would bow in awe of your powers. Elphie, listen to yourself harping about conspiracies and political factions—"

"Am I supposed to listen to your fashion advice?!" the Witch puts in incredulously.

Glinda steels her back and goes on: "—when you should be more concerned about losing your heritage!"

"I cannot lose something I never had," retorts the Witch, "and may I remind you, Miss Glinda, that what I lost is my sister."

Then, to Glinda's astonishment, the Witch's eyes glaze over at the statement. Her heart burns once more as her friend steps back, rubbing her black mourning cape against her eyes furiously. "Elphie, I—"

"Damn it all," Elphaba says, voice muffled by the cloth. "Damn this water that makes me bleed raw, damn the Wizard for his threats, and damn Nessarose for being reduced to a silly argument between us and for becoming strong on her own. Damn those shoes, and damn you, Glinda the Good, you know nothing."

"All that Nessarose wanted," Glinda speaks quietly, "was to give the best for the people of Munchkinland. How can you deprive her that wish, now that she is gone?"

"For all her magical shoes," Elphaba says, finally tucking back her cape, "she never saw it coming. That lovely ignorant sister of mine."

"Come," Glinda says, taking her hand, "we are almost late for the service."

"No." Elphaba, to Glinda's surprise, jerks away from her touch and would not look at her eyes. "You've done enough trouble. I thank you—for my sister's sake, I thank you. For all that you did back in Shiz, for all that you tried to do, but failed. I need to bury my sister and watch over my father, perhaps wait for my brother to return. There is nothing here for me now."

Glinda tries to grab her hand again but the green creature is quicker than she and is already striding away. She thinks scathingly, _And off you fly, you Witch, leaving us all slithering on the ground._ She bites her lips to keep herself from screaming, curling her toes so she would not follow. Still, she shouts: "When you left, you as good as killed her!"

The Witch—Elphaba—does not turn around.

* * *

 **Secrecy**

The Scrow are not fearful of Elphaba although they watch her carefully as she makes her way through the patch of grass in the moonlight. She stops at the edge of their encampment and looks for someone to address, hopefully someone who would understand her language.

Yet there is one who speaks: "Witch! It is the witch!"

She turns to the source of the voice and found an old man smiling toothily at her. "I can offer you nothing for I brought nothing," she says as politely as she can, "except for the clothes on my back and my broom."

"Do you put your self less than your clothes or your broom?" the old man asks cheekily.

Elphaba flushes despite herself but she replies: "I find myself not knowing what people might want of a witch."

"Perhaps her time or her voice." The people are beginning to relax, apparently hearing the smile on the old man's tone. "Speak then."

Elphaba takes a deep breath and says carefully, "I come to speak with your Princess. I have news I wish to take to her."

Here, the old man pauses as if to consider. Involuntarily, his eyes seem to search her shoulders where her Familiars are missing but they return to her face. His dark face lightens even with the night spreading. "I would take you to the edge of her tent."

She steps into the camp and everyone begins to disperse, the meeting over. Or begun, in Elphaba's case, but she wills herself not to tremble. In the large and colorful tent, the Princess Nastoya lies over blankets either woven by the Scrow or traded with the Arjiki. The large woman opens one eye as she enters and the old man bows to leave. In the darkness broken only by the bright moonlight seeping through the tent skin, Elphaba can truly see the majesty of the Elephant.

"You might have brought crows," rumbles the Princess.

"I had no need for help," Elphaba responds as she removes her pointed hat and falls on her knees, "only comfort. My sister is dead."

"Long live the Wicked Witch of the East," the Princess replies, not mockingly for she never mocks, but also not with conviction for their lives never touched. "I have heard. Such a tragedy." She shifts over the blankets and peers into Elphaba's eyes. She looks down at Elphaba's hands holding the broom: green fingers enclosed over smoothened wood. "What have you to hold in the East now? Regrets far stronger than those in the West?"

Stung, Elphaba lashes out, "I come not to be convinced of my duties."

"But you are here," the Princess points out, "and you did not come to have tea. Speak, child. I am old and weary, and I have no time for riddles."

Knowing that her green skin would not hide the tinge of blush the admonishment brought, Elphaba bows slightly to acknowledge the words. She tries to calm herself, but there is so much to think, so much to feel! Even with the skin of her knees and the tips of her boots pressed against the ground, she thinks she is still flying, and winds from different directions are pulling her. "I came for enlightenment."

The Princess' dried skin wrinkles around the face to form a smile. "And how can _I_ give you direction when you do not ask for conviction?"

"I need—" And here, Elphaba has to pause for somehow she realizes that she had come here for answers, but she did not know how to ask her questions. "I have not yet attained the forgiveness I sought."

The Princess does not speak, waiting for her to continue.

Elphaba tries again, "And I have done so many wrong things. The Wizard has made some demands, all of them I am not willing to meet. I know that Munchklinland will fall into his rule once more, but I dare not stay—no, I _will not_ stay—in Colwen Grounds to try to rule. The Vinkus clan has disappeared and it is my doing..." She pauses and looks up at the Princess, but getting no response she cries in agitation, "Speak, oh wise woman! I would have you reproach me again for my actions! I thought of myself as a pawn to both the Wizard and to the woman whom I was too late to kill, yet..." And she falls silent.

Here is when the Princess Nastoya speaks: "I told you once and I will say it once again: _Nothing is written in the stars. Not these stars, nor any other._ Will it make you feel better if I say that you are only pawn to your own limitations?"

Elphaba's breath hitches in her throat.

"Not you, nor the Wicked Witch of the East, nor the Wizard of Oz, nor the Magical Little Girl can truly go where you wish to go. Oh, but what do I know? I am merely an old Elephant wearing the skin of a Human, yet beneath the cover of skin and sorcery, I am my own mind. And I have my name. I refuse to believe my mistakes are done other than through my own stupidity." The Princess Nastoya stretches again, layers and layers of skin folding and unfolding over the blankets, eyes blinking slowly to watch the Witch.

"I need to hate," Elphaba finally confesses in a whisper, bowing her head—this time in shame. "I cannot let my sins go for fear of having no purpose. And now my sister is dead and I refuse to believe she died only because of a house. A _house,"_ she hisses angrily, "that comes from another land through an _accident."_

The Princess looks at her sadly. Her arm reaches out and her fat fingers brush against the green cheeks that hold no tears. "I cannot tell you to let go of your hate, for without it, who will you be?"

"Undoubtedly, I will not be called 'wicked'," the Witch replies wryly. "This path that you speak, the way that all should go, would it be wiser if I then simply disappear? What can hate do but bring more hate?"

The Princess sighs. "I may give you words that will leave you in awe, yet all that you do is not due to my bidding. All that you need is within your grasp. All you have to do is reach out and close your fingers to claim them. In the end, everything is your decision."

This answer disturbs Elphaba, but she licks her lips and says, "It is hard to think...I have no strings pulling my limbs anymore except my own. I have responsibilities..." She swallows hard as the Princess stares at her blearily, now too quiet for comfort. _Reach out and close your fingers to claim them._ More quietly, she adds: "I would like to stay here, after everything is over. May I?"

"Child," the Princess Nastoya says fondly, "you have the sky. A mere Elephant is honored that an Eagle would choose her back to nest on."

* * *

 **Unlimited**

As she flies to Kiamo Ko—home, until all these madness ends—Elphaba thinks of control and of decisions. All the people who surprised her, disappointed her, or simply disappeared from her life. She thinks of Madame Morrible with her unwavering belief on a half-crazed man from a foreign world. Of Princess Nastoya, with her wariness of the dangers against Animals despite her wisdom. Of Glinda and her uneasy and unknowing manipulation of people willing to believe her. Of Nessarose and her belief that her faith and her magic shoes would trample over Munchkinland.

And now, here is Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West. Even as she returns to her castle where Nanny and Liir are, she realizes she has places to go to, people to find, and more decisions to make. Here she is, pawn no longer.

She smiles and leans over her broom, eyes taking on the stars where they hung on the dark sky, letting the thrash of wind whip on her face and streak away her name and her chains.

The only hold she has now is the one she imposes on herself. Now, she knows she can be forgiven, if only she lets herself forgive her own faults. Elphaba laughs and, thinking of Nessarose and Glinda, shouts fondly, "Oh! Such is the path of witches!"

On the ground, her shadow is a mere speck on the grass, ignored and forgotten as it silently waits for her to fall.


End file.
